


Elevated

by Lemon (Ritome)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Kindaichi and Matsukawa are mentioned but it's super brief, Kunimi gets beat up, Other, Self-Destruction, Self-Indulgent, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:23:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10103324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ritome/pseuds/Lemon
Summary: He realizes, looking down at the lukewarm bowl of noodles, that one of his eyes are nearly swollen shut, and the only thing he can do is sigh, letting his head tip forward with exhaustion. It seeps into his bones and clings to his rib cage, suffocating him. He doesn’t care.





	

Though time is no longer an active concept for Kunimi, he knows he’s been smoking for a long while but can’t seem to place an exact day or what influenced him to take that dangerous step toward the edge. He teeters there, overlooking it and sure to fall at any moment. It hasn’t happened yet, and he’s surprised. Since there’s nobody to pull him away from the dangers, he almost seems to lean into them, certain and ready for absolute destruction. He’s falling, not into the pit though. The floor that’s meant to be sturdy under his palms shifts, almost as though it’s melting away. His wandering conscious is kind enough to tell him that it’s just the drug in his system.

  
He’s high, ridiculously so, when the first hit lands. It’s somewhere to his left temple and makes his senses ring in dull resonance. It hurts just a bit, but the first strike always does. No matter how up in the clouds he is, he always feels the violent first bash of a fist against his skull. It’s probably meant to grab his spinning mind’s attention but only proves to help him sink further into oblivion.

  
With his fading senses, he doesn’t feel the second and third blows to his face. He knows they’ll hurt later and sees the attacker through foggy eyes, but he doesn’t - can’t care, not when his skin is crawling with certain bliss, and he’s glad he got blasted earlier. It’s better for him not to be aware when he’s attacked like this, for reasons he’s never bothered to ask, doesn’t need to ask. But if he’s out of consciousness, when he refuses to fight back, they leave sooner, and he has fewer wounds to lick later. All the hits blend into one, and a wet at his upper lip tells him his nose might be bleeding. He doesn’t care.

  
When calloused hands wrap around his throat, and he sees with blurry eyes one of his attackers, he doesn’t bother. The air is leaving him, or rather, being refused entry. He doesn’t fight, doesn’t claw at the fingers cutting off the already limited oxygen to his brain. His eyes are closed, something he doesn’t even remember doing. A buzz is starting to rise at his fingertips, different from the whisp of the drug. They want him dead. He wants them to go through with it, fading into subconscious with silent eagerness.

  
It’s not till he wakes up with a pounding headache, a dull thrumming at the dark bruises on his face and arms, that disappointment settles in his bones. It does hurt now, but somehow, Kunimi no longer feels it as intense as it’d been the first time. He’d cried the first time, he thinks. He doesn’t remember. But he’s spilling into his bed after a short trek to his dorm room. His body feels heavy, weighed down by the fatigue of his injuries and an itching hunger and dehydration at the back of his mind. He ignores them, sleep pulling him in easily. He welcomes it.

  
When he wakes again, his entire body aches and his mind is crawling with a horrible migraine. He licks his bottom lip and tastes blood, crusty and dried there on his face. He feels like shit and probably looks even worse but ignores it in favor of getting something to eat. The measly ramen is enough to hold him off for another day, and he sits on the floor to eat it, movements slow with heavy limbs. He realizes, looking down at the lukewarm bowl of noodles, that one of his eyes are nearly swollen shut, and the only thing he can do is sigh, letting his head tip forward with exhaustion. It seeps into his bones and clings to his rib cage, suffocating him. He doesn’t care.

  
Considering a shower, he avoids the mirror at the sink, the slightest glance at his face unwelcome. While the water, too warm, singes and burns his skin, he sits under the spray, limbs too heavy to hold himself up. He almost doesn’t bother with washing himself, doesn’t see the point, but the faint patter of red down the drain motivates him just enough to clean the grease from his hair and run the soap pathetically over his skin. It stings to wash his face and gives him a decent idea of what kind of cuts he’ll see when he gets out. He stays on the floor of the tub until his skin is raw with the relentless heat of the water.

  
Stepping out, he finally takes a glance at his reflection and finds his earlier guesses right. His left eye is nearly swollen shut, an unsightly purple-green combo while the sclera that is visible remains a slight pink from the impact of being hit. He sighs, brushing his fingertips over his lip and feeling how swollen it is. Trailing over his jaw, he flinches just slightly when he touches an ugly bruise at his right cheekbone, nearly matching the color of his eye. His nose is roughly under the same condition, but he’s relieved to find it’s not broken despite the blunt punches received. Finally, he allows his hands to trail to his neck, the purpling a clear imitation of brutal fingerprints. He doesn’t need to check his arms to know there are bruises there, so he leaves them alone, exiting the bathroom with a sound of displeasure at the ugly discolorations.

  
He’s not sure how much time passes after he finally manages to pull on some clothes, and he’s half considering getting high again, just to help the hours along in an easy bliss. He’s contemplating reaching for his lighter when the rasp at his dorm’s door spills into the stuffy room. Kunimi ends up staring at the dull, silver door for a long time, hoping only that the intruder would go away and leave him to his own devices. He wasn’t sure how able he was to carry on a conversation if it wasn’t someone else there to leave marks on his skin.

  
“Kunimi, open up - It’s me,” came the muffled but familiar voice from the opposite of the wall. Distress with hinted annoyance crawled into his skin, and he almost wished that it’d been someone else willing to beat his senses from him. That’d be easier after all; he was never great at communicating when someone was undeniably there to lecture him.

  
He was able to gain a moment of satisfaction, taking his time to finally answer the door, movements sluggish as he meandered across the cluttered floor of his dorm to the door. Pulling it open with a sigh, he struggled to peer at Hanamaki with his one good eye, finding it less effort just to keep his left sealed closed. “What do you want?” he murmured, tone indifferent if it weren’t for the bit of annoyance that spilled into his speech.

  
Hanamaki spared him a single glance before he was shoving into the room like a befuddled mother with no respect for privacy. For just moment, Kunimi felt fondness at how close to the truth it was. It lasted for only a moment for soon, his chin was being pinched between Hanamaki’s fingers and turned this way and that as he thoroughly inspected the ugly bruises on his skin, taking a long moment to stare down the fingered marks around his throat. A scoff rumbled from the older male’s throat, leaving Kunimi little time to brace for the repetitive lecture that was sure to come as always.

  
“I’m glad I came,” he began, putting his hands on his hips. Kunimi wasn’t sure if it was intentional or instinct and felt that more interesting than the words spilling from his ex-upperclassmen. “Mattsun would have had a fit. Kunimi, you can’t keep letting yourself be beaten up. I know you’re smart enough to know how to avoid these people so why do you let them hit you? They’re going to kill you one day.”

  
Kunimi’s first response had been to shrug, frustratingly indifferent to the entire situation. “I hope they do,” he murmured finally, single, working eye downcast but completely sure of the words he was saying. From the way he spoke, voice unwavering, he made it seem as though death was the only thing he had to look forward to. The more he said it, the truer it started to sound.

  
Apparently, to Hanamaki’s standards, that had been the wrong thing so say. Fingers were curling into his shoulders, ignoring or unaware of the bruise there, and shaking him as it’d bring him to his senses which were already so far damaged by weed and other miscellaneous drugs. “Are you completely stupid?” he demanded, through the question bode no answers. He didn’t want any of the answers Kunimi could offer, and he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

  
“Do you not care how I feel about you? How Matsukawa feels about you?” Hanamaki sounded like he was going to break down, like it was hurting him to lecture Kunimi like this. The worse part about hearing the break in Hanamaki’s voice was that he didn’t feel anything. He didn’t feel the telltale sign of guilt in the pit of his stomach or the ache in his hand that seemed connected to his empathy.

The silence stretched between them, and it occurred to him that maybe he wanted an answer, something that Kunimi didn’t have. He searched the face in front of him, flushed pink like his hair and on the verge of his tears. His eye lingered for a moment longer before lowering. “Sorry,” he murmured quietly, though he didn’t know why he was supposed to be apologizing. He only knew that’d be the quickest way for him to make Hanamaki feel better. He was pulled close, arms winding around him in a hug that ignored the bruises on his skin and was meant to be reassuring, possibly comforting. Kunimi didn’t return it.

  
Hanamaki only stayed for a bit longer after that, forcing Kunimi to clean up his dorm a little bit, open a window and let in some fresh air. He made sure that a decent meal was eaten, lingering behind until Kunimi reassured him that he’d try to take better care of himself though it was easily ushered lies. Ones he didn’t feel bad about.

  
When he’d finally left, Kunimi was quick to close the window, the light streaming through blinding to his eyes and more annoying than refreshing. He settled on the edge of his bed with a distinct sigh, throat tightening with discomfort as he retrieved his lighter and a neatly wrapped blunt.

  
“You're being stupid,” echoed a silent voice that sounded distinctly like Kindaichi’s had but reflected Kunimi's own thoughts with quiet accuracy.

“I know,” he’d huffed to open air, the sound the closest he’d come to a laugh. Then he shoved the voice away, flicked on his lighter and took a long drag to nullify the slight pain blooming in the center of his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> i think kunimi is just really soft, y'know. he'd bruise easily.


End file.
